


Lights Over Monaco

by wingsofanillyrian



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F/M, Formula 1 AU, Rating May Change, a dash of fluff, dash of angst, in which Nesta is a lifelong fan and makes a career out of it, maybe a sprinkle of smut in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofanillyrian/pseuds/wingsofanillyrian
Summary: Nesta Archeron discovered the world of Formula 1 when she was nine years old. It has since consumed her life. After scoring her dream job and catching the eye of a Redbull racing driver, she thinks she has it all. Come to find out, her life wasn't as perfect as she had hoped.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Nesta Archeron/Tomas Mandray
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

Nesta Archeron discovered Formula 1 when she was 9 years old. She woke before the sun one Sunday morning, quietly excited to have the television all to herself and watch whatever cartoons she wanted. But she couldn’t remember what channel they were on, instead flipping through the programs. She had almost given up when she stumbled across a race.

The moment she had seen the brightly colored open-wheeled cars flash across the screen, she paused. For whatever reason, the high pitched wasp-like scream of the twelve cylinder engines and the astonishing speed that the drivers were travelling enthralled young Nesta. She didn’t look away once for the rest of the race, or even for the post-race interviews and wrap up that most adults skipped. Something about it had her adrenaline pumping.

Nesta traded her dolls for matchbox cars, and when she grew older, picked up racing magazines instead of teen ones. Ever since that day, Formula 1 consumed her. No matter how the other kids or her two younger sisters teased her for it, her love for the sport never tarnished. 

She spent years getting up at 2 am to watch live races that were being held halfway around the world. Instead of going to her senior prom, Nesta stayed home and layed out her predictions for the season’s drivers and constructors championships. She didn’t know how to do anything half-ass. She poured her whole heart into the sport and devoted her life to it.

**********

Nesta spent her 24th birthday working. It wasn’t like she could request the day off, not that it mattered. The racetrack at Monaco was exactly where she would have been anyway, working or not.

A press pass got her through the first security checkpoint. The team tents loomed ahead as she waited for personnel to cross the unstriped asphalt, inching her car carefully through the throngs of people. She rolled her window down, soaking in the sound of air tools and snippets of conversations. 

Street tracks like Monaco were her favorite. They required drivers to push themselves with plenty of technical corners and dramatic incidents. There was less room for error, as the tracks themselves were not as wide. Drivers had to know their limits and follow the racing line closely.

Race tracks were Nesta’s comfort zone. She knew each track on the calendar like the back of her hand. Every turn was permanently etched in her mind like words on a tombstone. Race weekends followed a set schedule, something that she could appreciate. Friday: practice laps. Saturday: more practice, followed by qualifying, where each driver got the chance to set the fastest lap and secure a spot in the starting line up for the main event on Sunday.

Before she had graduated college, Nesta had managed to fully entrench herself in the world of Formula 1. Securing an internship at ESPN her sophomore year, she had made herself indispensable to the crusty old man that had been the senior track side reporter for decades. She studied everything he did and the questions he asked each driver, noting what changes she would have made. Somehow, he came to admire her spirit and taught her the tricks of the trade.

When he retired the year after Nesta graduated, he went to the board of directors and personally recommended her to fill his spot. She waited two agonizing days for their decision. 

Using whatever means necessary, Nesta had clawed her way to the top and cemented her reputation as the most cutthroat reporter in the industry. Her goal had been for everyone in motorsport to know her name, and in only two years, she had done so. Better yet, she had caught the eye of one of the fastest drivers on the grid.

Her phone rang just as she pulled into the press parking area. She answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello?”

Tomas’ velvety voice thundered through the speakers of her Civic. “Hey baby. You here yet?”

“Just pulled in,” She replied, touching up her makeup in the rearview. 

“Right on time for a quickie. Meet me at my trailer in five.”

Tomas had already hung up before she had the chance to protest. Both their reputations hinged on their relationship staying secret. If the press caught wind that she was fucking a driver, her credibility would go out the window, and Tomas would be the laughing stock of the grid. So sneaking into his trailer wasn’t exactly the type of discreet she was aiming for.

Tomas Mandray had been racing for Red Bull for two years when she had scored her first exclusive interview with him. He had just been awarded pole position at the Spanish Grand Prix in Barcelona, and Nesta had sweet talked her way into the paddock. It had taken minutes for his charming blue eyes to enchant her. He had won that race, and taken her to bed straight after. 

The sex was great, but that’s all it ever was. Their relationship was purely based on the physical; nothing emotional on either end. They had agreed on that from the start. Just sex.

Unfortunately for Nesta, somewhere along the way it had become something more.

Sighing, she put on her oversized sunglasses and hid her tawny hair under a gauzy scarf. The fashion wouldn’t stand out at all amongst the celebrities that frequented the Monaco Grand Prix. Going over the top here was expected; Monaco was known for its money. Due to the lack of income tax, Monaco was a haven for white collar delinquents and royalty alike. Lamborghini’s and Ferrari’s were commonplace, and women wore rings that could set a jewel thief up for life. 

No one bothered her as she strode towards the pit checkpoint, flashing her press badge to get by. She fell into her usual cadence, exuding an air of importance and invincibility. Seemingly without realizing, people moved out of her way when they saw her coming. The navy, red, and yellow of the Redbull tent came into view, and Nesta inserted herself into the crowd of mechanics and VIPs to get past security. Press wasn’t allowed in the area until after the race.

Nesta broke away once inside, heading down a back corridor. She knew the layout by heart, having walked the path many times. The door at the end of the hall led outside to Tomas’ private trailer. She didn’t bother to knock before entering. Tomas would already be waiting for her.

He set down his phone as she entered. “Finally,” He said with a savage grin. “We only have a few minutes.”

****************

Tomas left as soon as he finished, donning his jumpsuit without so much as a kiss goodbye. Utterly used to the behavior, Nesta straightened her clothes and again touched up her makeup before heading back out.

She was scheduled to conduct a pre-race interview with Cassian Valle in the Mercedes tent in twenty minutes. Redbull and Mercedes were at opposite ends of the pit, giving her plenty of time to think.

Truthfully, Nesta was dreading the interaction. Cassian was an arrogant ass. She couldn’t stand interviewing him; all he did was skirt around questions and try to flirt, which made it incredibly difficult to get any headline-worthy tidbits from him.

Azriel Sainz, Cassian’s teammate at Mercedes, was much more amiable. He was mostly forgettable and quiet, but always gave her something to work with and was sometimes downright pleasant to talk to. She could understand why the public loved him, but not why they were so enamored with Cassian. Sure, he was a three time world champion, and that earned him plenty of fans, but he was just so… dreadful.

She made it to the Mercedes pit just minutes before the scheduled time, immediately spotting her tense cameraman, Jacob. Slim built, he was average looking, nothing special. He was sweet though, if not a bit of a pushover.

“Where the hell have you been?” He hissed, chocolate brown eyes wide. “Valle is waiting.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, handing Jacob her sunglasses and the scarf. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Not my fault if he was early.” Nesta accepted her microphone and rolled her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Happy birthday by the way,” Jacob added. Yes, there was the pushover side shining through. 

Nesta threw a grin at him over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

Cassian’s back was to her as she approached, his white Mercedes jumpsuit half on, the arms of it cinched around his waist. The crisp gray shirt he wore left little to the imagination, hugging his sculpted form. Good; at least that would capture the attention of any women that might be watching. As would the deep brown curl that fell in his face when he turned to her.

“If it isn’t my very favorite reporter,” He crooned, a grin plastered on his face. “Took you long enough to get here. I also hear it’s your birthday.” Nesta glared at Jacob. He shrank under her steely look, an apology stumbling from his lips.

“I would give you a birthday kiss, but I think you’d knock me out if I offered.”

Nesta pointedly ignored him, “Let’s just get on with it,” She said, motioning to Jacob to start recording. Once he signaled he was ready, Nesta breathed deep, the sweet scent of high octane fuel assaulting her senses. It steadied her, and she slipped into her professional mask before turning to the camera.

“As we all know, the Monaco Grand Prix offers drivers a unique set of challenges. The two-mile street course has 19 technical corners with little room for error. It is in Monaco that we get to see who has what it takes to be a Formula 1 champion.” She turned to Cassian, gave him a professional smile and continued.

“Last year, you had a puncture at turn seven when you ran over some debris. Coupled with the fumble the pit crew had with not having your tires ready when you came into the pit, you finished a disappointing 12th place, winning you no points in the driver’s championship. Do you expect that this year will be better, or will you stick to your usual aggressive driving style?”

Cassian laughed, running a hand through his unbound curls. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be changing anything. You can expect to see me on the podium, sweetheart. Most likely in first.”

Nesta grit her teeth. She couldn’t air that, and he knew it. “How about you answer the question without trying to piss me off?”

“It’s too easy,” Cassian said, that devilish grin returning. Nesta cut him a glare that simmered with violence. “Alright fine,” He relented, putting his hands up. “Go again.”

She repeated her question, and this time he answered, “I don’t really see any need to change my driving style, what happened last year was a fluke. I went wide on the turn and didn’t notice Vanserra's front wing until the last second and wasn’t able to change course.” Nesta nodded, encouraging him to go on. “I don't see myself making any mistakes like that this year. You can expect to see me on the podium, most likely in first.”

“Thank you for that Cassian. Good luck on the track today.”

“Thank you,” He said, waving at the camera. He paused before adding, “Though I won’t need luck.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and signalled for Jacob to cut the recording. At least that last bit could be edited out. “You are absolutely insufferable, you know that?”

Cassian shrugged, undoing the arms of his fire suit and slipping into them. “I do my best.” He winked at her before zipping up his suit, opening his mouth to say something else when the Mercedes team principal, Rhysand, barked at him to get his ass in gear. He gave Nesta a wordless salute before jogging off.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jacob said, packing up his camera. “That guy has balls.”

“He’s a Formula 1 driver,” Nesta said simply, putting her sunglasses back on. “Of course he does.”

**********

Nesta watched the 78 lap race from the press box, silently cheering Tomas on. Each time the pack of cars passed, the windows rattled, doing little to muffle the engine noise. She chatted with the others as necessary, keeping one eye on the tarmac below. Tomas had started from pole position, and held onto first place until the final 10 laps. He had attempted to lap an AlphaTauri driver when the driver had failed to yield, violating FIA regulations. The two had bumped tires in what was ruled a racing incident, but Nesta knew better. Tomas had lost his cool and nudged the other driver on purpose, nearly sending him into the wall. 

It was a bad call on Tomas’ part, as the comfortable four second lead he had held over second place shattered. Nesta swore under her breath as Cassian overtook Tomas, her heart dropping when the other Mercedes driver, Azriel, did the same. Tomas would not be happy about that. 

When the checkered flag waved, Cassian was first, Azriel second, and Tomas third. The winners parked before the podium, anger radiating from Tomas as he tore his helmet off. Tamlin, the Redbull team principal, said something to Tomas that had his cheeks burning red. 

Nesta grabbed Jacob and headed for the press room. They had a half hour tops before the post-race interviews started, and Nesta had to make sure she was front row. Though it didn’t matter where she sat; she always made sure her questions were answered.

It was more so for Tomas. She wanted him to see her, to see the understanding on her face and know she supported him even when he didn't win.

They were first to the press room, and Nesta had ample time to prepare questions. She couldn’t question Tomas, or she risked uncapping his rage. Instead, she jotted down a question she knew would shift the focus from Tomas to the Mercedes drivers.

Reporters began filing in, vying for the perfect spot and debating the race results with one another. Nesta remained in her seat, determined to maintain her composure as her stomach churned. Tomas finally entered, jaw set as he took his place on the stage. Nesta tried to subtly catch his eye, but he pointedly avoided looking at her. 

Cassian and Azriel entered, laughing and congratulating each other. Nesta noted the slight change in Tomas’ posture, the only hint of the blood boiling beneath his skin. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted, but still Nesta remained seated. Cassian, at least, sought her out in the crowd, and flashed her an ‘I-told-you-so’ grin when he found her. Once the clamor had died down, Nesta stood. The room quieted further, the others having learned not to talk over her if they valued their jobs. Nesta had a knack for digging up dirt on anyone she pleased.

Her eyes were still locked on Cassian as the moderator indicated she could ask her question. 

“Azriel,” She started, turning to the dark haired man, “You were lucky you were able to take second in this race, after the incident in turn twelve on lap 27 when you sustained heavy damage to your front wing, thanks to the actions of your teammate. Does it ever get under your skin that Valle’s overly-aggressive driving threatens your own position in the championship?”

The room was silent. Tomas hid his grin behind a well-manicured hand. Cassian’s eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. Good; she had hit a nerve. Azriel shrugged, crossing his arms. 

“It was a racing incident. Could have happened to anyone. I don’t think the blame lays entirely with Cassian; I could have given him more room on the corner.”

And that was that. Nesta didn’t ask any more questions, but she could feel Cassian glaring at her throughout. At the end of the interview, all three drivers thanked everyone before leaving.

As Nesta made her way back to her car, she texted Tomas.

_You okay?_

Her heart pounded as she waited for the reply. Her phone buzzed minutes later.

_I’ll be home late. Party at the Redbull house._

_Oh. Okay. See you later then._

“Happy birthday to me,” She muttered, stuffing the phone in her pocket.

Nesta wasn’t sure why his reply stung, but it cut deep. She had hoped that he would want to see her instead of going to another party and spend time with her on her birthday. Instead, he would probably stick his tongue down another woman’s throat like usual. She couldn’t really blame him. Their relationship had to remain secret and to do so, Tomas had to maintain his playboy aura. It wasn’t really cheating if she had agreed to it.

But if that were true, why did it hurt so fucking bad when he did?

Some of her tension eased when she finally spied her car in the lot. The Blue Bullet, she had nicknamed it, due to the strikingly bright paint. It was the first purchase she had made upon being promoted, and it had since become her pride and joy. She had chosen it because it set lap records left and right when it had hit the market a few years back, and she had craved speed her whole life. On city streets, this car was the closest she could get to a experiencing F1 car without completely breaking the bank.

“How about you don’t ask stupid fucking questions next time your prettyboy loses?”

Nesta’s breath hitched. Your prettyboy. The accusation was clear. Her hand slipped from the door handle, turning towards the voice. If he knew… If he knew about her and Tomas, they were done for. She willed her voice into solid steel.

“Cassian. I would advise you to choose your next words wisely.”

He placed a hand on her Civic, getting in her face. “Racing means you have racing incidents. I don’t expect you to understand, seeing as you’ve never been behind the wheel of a real race car.” He sneered at her car, the insult striking home.

Fear faded, replaced by a rising wave of scarlett rage. Nesta’s gaze stuck to where his hand lay on the bright blue paint, utterly vexed by the infringement. She bared her teeth at him, rising to the challenge in Cassian’s flaming hazel eyes. 

“Get. _Off._ ”

Cassian started at the command in her tone and obeyed. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Understanding the nuances of Formula 1 is my job description. I asked about that incident because I knew it would piss you off. Looks like I was right huh?” Her temper was getting the better of her. “And by the way, would it kill you to give me a decent quote once in a while, instead of always trying to get in my pants?”

“I do not-”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” Nesta scoffed, yanking the door open. 

The corners of his mouth twitched upward as she slammed the car door. “I was already planning on it.”

Those parting words haunted her drive home, even as she took the long way in hopes of blowing off steam. She shifted through the gears, throwing the Civic around corners much faster than was probably safe. Nesta didn’t care; her head was a mess. At least he hadn’t mentioned anything more about Tomas. Maybe Cassian had just thought she had a crush, based on the way she had been looking at him during the conference. Gods, she couldn’t get Cassian out of her head. 

His grin followed her up the stairs to her apartment, where she snapped the curtains shut. She couldn’t bear to look out over the track any longer today. 

Those words echoed in her head as she brushed her teeth and crawled into bed alone. Swam through her thoughts of Tomas, as she struggled to keep her eyes open when the clock showed 1 am. As she finally gave in, they were her last thought. 

I was already planning on it.


	2. Cheaters get Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the comments on chapter 1! Next chapter should be up in a week or so!

Nesta was already awake when the door to her studio apartment opened and softly snicked shut. The green glow of the digital clock at her bedside told her it was 6 am. The sun was already coming up, straining to pass through the blackout curtains and casting a soft light about the room.

Tomas paused, seeing she was awake. No sign of remorse on his face, or even a hint that he knew yesterday had been her birthday.

"Where have you been?” Nesta asked, sitting up. 

“Out,” Tomas replied, bracing a hand on the wall, he took off his shoes before throwing his keys on the counter.

"Where?" She pushed.

Annoyed, he ran a hand through his hair. "I told you. Red bull party. Are you done interrogating me now?"

Nesta wasn't satisfied with his answer, but didn't have it in her to fight. "Yeah."

"Good." He unceremoniously shucked off his shirt and pants and climbed into bed with her, his lips immediately attacking her neck. Nesta let it happen, relishing the touch. So rarely did he focus on her; it was always about him in the bedroom. She let him strip off her shirt and shorts. But her mind was still swimming with the image of Tomas, wrath rippling off him after his loss at the track.

“About the race yesterday,” She breathed, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m not talking about racing with you,” Tomas growled. That same wrath laced his words now, so she clamped down on her retort. She let her face fall, all emotion draining from her consciousness. Fine, that was fine. If he wanted a distraction, so be it.

She did not protest when he pushed her back on the bed, only said plainly, “I have work in an hour.”

**********

Nesta smacked her lips in the mirror, spreading the strawberry red gloss she had applied. Months of practice meant she could fuck Tomas and be ready to go in less than a half hour. It may have also meant that she was left unsatisfied, but she could always take care of that later.

“I ordered you some breakfast,” She called, slipping on her black booties. Living in Monaco meant there were plenty of residents that didn’t have time to cook for themselves, leading to plenty of delivery options for every meal. “Should be here in a half hour or so.” 

Tomas grumbled a response, preoccupied with the race replay on the television. She sighed, defeated. He really had forgotten her birthday, hadn’t he? Nesta wasn’t sure why she was surprised. He never remembered anything that was important to her. But gods forbid she forgot some tiny detail about him, like forgetting to add tomato to his omelette order. 

“See you later this week in Baku then?” She asked, stalling. He would be leaving in a few hours on the Red Bull private jet for the next race. Nesta would fly out on Wednesday, giving her a few days to herself before having to face him again.

“Yep,” Was all he said in response. Her shoulders slumped. He didn’t even look at her, too absorbed in the screen. In his eyes, Nesta would always come second. Racing was his first and only priority; everything else was background noise. She couldn’t blame him; her career came first as well. That was the entire reason she had agreed to keep this relationship secret in the first place.

“Alright. I’m going to work.” She paused on the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. Against her better judgement, she whispered, “Love you.”

Tomas gave no indication that he heard her.

**********

As usual, Nesta was the first one in the office. The fluorescent lights flickered on ahead of her as she walked to her office, steps echoing off the glass exterior walls of the highrise. Her office was second from the corner, and she was the only reporter to have an actual door instead of just a cubicle. The fact that the only other offices belonged to her supervisor and the CEO added to her prestige.

She worked in silence for a few hours before her colleagues began to file in. Pouring over photos from the previous day's race, Nesta had already typed up half the story she planned to print by the end of the day. The beauty of being a reporter was she could spin events in her favor, as long as she was tactical about it. She focused on Cassian and Azriel’s near miss, completely glossing over the incident with Tomas. 

A knock shattered her concentration. She peered over her monitor, brows furrowed at the intruder. “What?”

“Change of plans. Instead of whatever you’re working on now, write something up to go with these.” Her supervisor slapped a manilla envelope on her desk. She glanced between it and the man before her. Leaning back, she crossed her arms. 

“I already have my headline half written.”

“I don’t care. This is better, just take a look.” He waited while she sliced open the envelope, five glossy, low quality grainy photos spilling onto the glass desktop. Nesta froze, her mouth going dry.

The photos showed Tomas leading Mimi Vanserra, his fellow Red Bull Racing teammate’s ex wife, into his apartment. Both were smiling, Mimi clearly in her cups. One photo showed that Tomas had her pinned against the cream brick of the building, a hand creeping up her thigh as he kissed her. 

A low buzz filled her head. That was why Tomas hadn’t appeared at her apartment until early this morning. He had been otherwise occupied, shoving his hands under Mimi’s skirt. Nesta knew she shouldn’t care. She knew these pictures should mean nothing to her, but instead they cracked open something in her chest, leaving her heart exposed and raw.

“Where did these come from?” Nesta asked, voice far quieter than she would have wished.

“Does it matter? Just write the damn story.” 

“Where did these come from?” She repeated, struggling to keep tears from falling. Gods, she hated that she felt like her insides had been ripped from her. This vulnerability was like nothing she had felt before. She had always been in control of her emotions, always able to carefully craft her facial expressions, but she was struggling to hold on to a semblance of sanity.

Her supervisor tilted his head, reading her distress. “Why do you care?”

Nesta almost spilled everything. She caught herself, reigning in her tongue and tucking away her emotions. It was an effort to school her face into a mask of cool indifference, hiding the scream fighting its way up her throat.

“I don’t.”

“Right,” He responded, eyes narrowed. “I want these published by the end of the day.”

Nodding, she scooped up the pictures and turned to her monitors. She shoved her emotions aside, unwilling to let a man interfere with her career. Heels clicking on the pine floor, Nesta slammed her office door shut, a clear signal to the entire office to leave her the hell alone.

Settling into her seat, Nesta kicked off her heels and tucked one foot under her other leg. Cracking her knuckles and setting her fingers on the keys, she began to write.

**********

Four empty coffee cups sat on her desk when she had finally finished. She wordlessly set a printed copy on her supervisor’s desk, not bothering to wait for him to read and edit it. Stopping in her office only to grab her laptop, she left the office early. It was early afternoon, and given how rarely she left before anyone else, it was bound to cause a stir among her colleagues.

She paid them no heed, head held high as she strode to the elevator. The ruse lasted only until the stainless doors slid shut. Lip wobbling, she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms to them. 

Gods, she was so stupid. How could she let herself become attached to someone like Tomas? From the start, she had known there would never be a long term relationship between them. Tomas put his career first. Nesta thought she had too. But along the way, something had changed. 

The pain of her unrequited love was a kick to the gut. The elevator dinged, forcing her to wipe away her tears. As she navigated through the underground garage to her car, the only thing she could count on anymore, she decided she was done. The story would be printed with her name attached, and Tomas would know he had been found out. The only stipulation they had put on their situation was that neither would sleep with anyone else. Tomas had violated Nesta’s trust one too many times.

Traffic was already horrendous even though it was barely 3 pm. Mediterranean heat soaked through the open window of her Civic and warmed her bones as she wound through the streets, savoring the growl of the engine. “Never dating a driver again,” She muttered to herself, pressing in the clutch and downshifting as she came to a stop outside her apartment building.

She felt hollow as she climbed the steps to the front door, ignoring the greeting that sang from the woman at the front desk. The elevator ride to the 12th floor seemed longer than usual. Each step to her door was an effort; fitting the key in the lock was even more challenging. Exhaustion had sank its cold claws into her, slowly draining her energy until it had fully depleted.

Grabbing the leftover takeout from the fridge, she sank onto the tall barstool at the kitchen island. She wasn’t hungry, her stomach churning, but she forced herself to finish the golden noodles and sauteed veggies. 

Her phone rang, Tomas’ name popping up on the screen. A fresh wave of betrayal washed over her, mouth twisting as she declined the call. The story had already been published, then. Her hands shook as she cleaned up her dinner.

Her phone vibrated again. She did not answer.

Tomas’ text came through as she ran herself a steaming shower.

_Answer the phone._

Amazed at her willpower, she set the phone down on the vanity and stepped into the shower. She took her sweet time, letting the near-scalding water wash away her thoughts. She imagined those pictures swirling down the drain like bubbles of soap.

When she emerged some half hour later, a slew of texts had come in.

_Nesta lets talk about this_

Two missed calls separated the messages from the next text. 

_Just let me explain?_

Four more missed calls. Nesta huffed, almost impressed at his determination. She would let him rack up the international call fees without allowing him the satisfaction of hearing her voice. She refused to listen to the voicemails, knowing that if she did, her carefully built resolve would crumble. While she would be unable to avoid him when she landed in Baku tomorrow, she could at least make him sweat for a day.

_ANSWER THE PHONE NOW_

Nesta switched her phone into do not disturb mode so she wouldn’t be tempted to answer next time he called. She finished packing, double checking for her passport and plane ticket. Satisfied, she took one last look over the streets of Monaco before shutting the curtains and crawling into bed. In order to make her flight, she would need to be up at 2 am. Seeing as it was currently 5pm, those blackout curtains she’d invested in were a blessing.

No matter how long she lay there, Nesta could not banish those damned images from her mind. Tomas, his fingers digging into Mimi’s thigh. His lips on her neck, head thrown back in anticipation and bliss. Them in his bed, the same bed Nesta had been in dozens of times, her nails carving across his muscled back.

“Fuck,” She whispered, untangling her legs from the sky blue sheets and stalking to the television. She scrolled through her list on Netflix, searching for something simple. Senna was a documentary about the Brazilian Formula 1 legend that she had seen so many times she could quote it nearly the whole way through. Nesta turned it on, praying that the mind-numbing familiarity of it would lull her to sleep.

**********

An ear piercing alarm jolted Nesta from her sleep. She had missed the first, softer one and had only an hour to make it to the airport that was 45 minutes away if she drove at the speed limit.

“Shit, shit, shit,” She mumbled, instantly alert. Throwing her honeyed hair in an unkempt bun, she stopped only to chug cold, day old coffee straight from the pot. She grimaced, grabbing her bags and passport and nearly running out the door. She hopped in her car, peeling out of the parking space. The early hour meant few others were out, and Nesta was infinitely glad for the empty streets as she rowed through the gears. 

Once she made it on the highway, it was a straight shot. The red needle on the speedometer inched up, passing a hundred miles per hour as her eyes scanned the various pull offs for police. She sped through the inky black, headlights cutting swaths of light across her path and adrenaline coursing through her veins, wondering if this was what drivers felt like piloting a Formula 1 car.

Nesta understood why it was so addictive.

There was no time to dwell on what ailed her. No space in her mind for anything but the connection between her and the machine she piloted. The fingers of her right hand held the shift knob in a death grip, her left wrapped tightly around the supple leather wheel. The world seemed to slow around her, like she was driving through syrup. She was acutely aware of the blur of other cars as she carefully weaved between them.

Her imagination flared, transporting her back to the streets of Monaco. She could feel the soft scrape of synthetic helmet padding against her cheeks. The heat of the engine warmed her legs, threatening to make her overheat in her thick fireproof suit. A race engineer prattled in her ear, feeding her information about the field and condition of her tires. Her stomach went to her feet as she swung around a corner, muscles in her neck barking under the strain of the additional g force.

She would kill to pilot a Formula 1 car for a single lap.

The airport spur appeared too quickly, shattering the illusion. Adrenaline began to subside, leaving her palms sweaty and her arms shaking. Head swimming from the high-speed thrill, she parked on the highest level of the parking garage in her own little corner. Never in her life had she felt so free as when she pushed herself to the limit, teetering on the edge between ecstasy and potential disaster.

Her hands were still trembling as she handed the stewardess her passport to check in. 

The woman smiled warmly at her. “Nervous flyer?” A slight french accent edged her words, reminding her of the McLaren driver Cressida. The Frenchwoman was one of two female drivers on the grid this year, the other being Vivianne driving for Wlliams. 

“A bit,” She lied, taking her passport back. She didn’t feel like making a fool of herself by explaining. She had been on planes countless times and would likely sleep like a babe the entire time.

“Your pilot is excellent. She is very experienced, nothing to worry about.”

Nesta gave the woman a tight smile and wandered off to find a seat. According to the gate schedule, her flight wouldn’t take off for over an hour. When she had so much time before a flight, she generally tended to pick a seat near the floor to ceiling windows so she could watch the air traffic. Watching the marshalls on the ground direct planes was soothing, somehow reminding her of the teams directing traffic on track each weekend.

She plopped down on the cleanest looking bench she could find, digging through her carry on for the ratty paperback she was currently reading. Being one of the few people at her gate, she felt no shame when she curled up on the bench, the wooden arm digging into her side as she brought her feet up. 

She had lost herself in the glittering green forests of Terrassen when a hearty laugh drew her attention. Unfortunately, it was one she recognized. She sighed, shutting her book and pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Well I’ll be damned.” Nesta’s eyes slid shut, mouth twisting. How was he so chipper at three in the gods damned morning? “Nesta Archeron, that you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She turned, meeting a wall of tanned muscle. Cassian’s grin flashed triumphantly. A simple white Mercedes branded tee and dark jeans was a stark contrast to the racing suit she normally saw him sporting. 

But he was the last person she wanted to see. She had fought all morning to keep Tomas from her mind, and seeing another driver only made the treacherous thoughts resurface.

Cassian gestured to the seat across from her. “Mind if I sit?”

“Actually I would,” She said coldly, not bothering to hide her ire. There were no cameras around, and thus no reason to put up a professional front. She didn’t give him the courtesy of smoothing her expression; not when his presence sent a spike of anxiety through her.

The driver’s face fell, head cocking to the side. “Something bothering you?”

“You are,” She responded, mood souring further. Did he really feel the need to act like he cared? All he did was torture her at the track. There was no reason he needed to be cordial now. She wished he would leave her alone to her misery and let her get back to her book.

Cassian nodded. “Right then. Sorry to bother you.”

Azriel appeared, nodding in greeting. Nesta dipped her head slightly in return. Azriel had never tried to get under her skin, and she respected that. Something flashed across Cassian’s face, but it was gone before she could determine what it was. 

“Rhys wants you over with us to discuss strategy,” Azriel murmured, voice honeyed. Cassian nodded tersely, hesitating before walking towards the corner his team had claimed. 

Blissfully, Cassian left Nesta alone until it was time to board the plane. As he was a first class passenger, he boarded first. Nesta passed him as she boarded, and he winked at her when he caught her eye. She grimaced, mimicking a gag.

Cassian’s lips just twitched upward. Any type of reaction from her was good enough for him. When she took her seat, Cassian craned his neck and tried to find her. He looked utterly ridiculous, head hanging out in the isle and a shit eating grin on his face when he spotted her.

Two girls around her age began whispering, recognizing the driver. Nesta rolled her eyes and popped in her headphones, determined to sleep away the flight.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multichapter fic! I am currently shooting for 10 plus chapters and hoping to update every other week. Let me know your thoughts!


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